


Paper and Cotton

by calligraphypenn



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-06-09 06:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6894706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calligraphypenn/pseuds/calligraphypenn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the centuries, there developed in the Circle of Magi a tradition of showing affection, regard and intent through the giving of small, practical trinkets. It became a way to dodge any suspicion from the Circle authorities--who could object to the gift of some paper, or a single coin?</p><p>In which Fenris is a practical elf, and accidentally tells Anders through tokens that he likes him VERY MUCH. But (at first) Fenris has no idea, and Anders is daily more baffled and suspicious. As seen on Tumblr, and now with lovely art by AO3 user Prudabaga.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had begun as a mistake.

Fenris' innate sense of fairness meant that at Satinalia, even the apostate was to receive a gift. However, he drew the line at spending actual coin on anything for the mage.

So, in the smoky darkness of the Hanged Man, as his friends reached across each other for wrapped packages and cups of spiced wine, all the better to cut the chill, Fenris dropped a stack of gilt-edged paper in front of Anders. He had found it in a chest, with the top sheets mildewed and spotty. It was perhaps more thoughtful than the mage deserved, especially as the gift he'd received from Anders was a squat, suspicious-looking bottle green bottle of wine, handed over with a sardonic smile. It was probably what Anders used to dress wounds.

“What is this—paper?” Anders said. He looked disturbed suddenly, his wide red mouth opening as if to go on, then shutting again. He paged through the first few sheets of creamy white paper, with slow hands. Fenris shrugged—he was done. The mage could wrap fish in the paper for all he cared. He poured himself wine from the jug on the table, but kept an eye on Anders, who seemed to be having a mild internal crisis. Varric noticed, as he did most things.

“If you don't like it, you don't have to keep it,” Varric said. “You could give it to me, I'll trade you for this smutty poetry Isabela gave me.”

“No,” Anders said, clapping a hand over the paper, as if it was going to fly away in a breeze. “I...needed paper, actually. This will be useful.”

The words were nonchalant, but Anders' eyes slid over towards Fenris. Fenris, tired of the whole affair, met his gaze straight on. Anders froze, as if caught doing something terrible, and looked away, busying himself with putting his gifts away.

The second time, if possible, was even stranger.

The mage had been injured, in a Darktown battle. A rogue's blade had caught him in the back, slicing him shoulder to waist. It seemed shallow enough, as the mage kept fighting, and Hawke easily cut down the rogue soon after.

It was few battles where a bystander was injured, but this time a young woman had been caught up in the melee, and lay wailing from some injury. As Hawke stood by apologetically, Fenris' eyes were caught on a nearby chest—probably the abandoned belongings of some frantic refugee. The top layer was junk—figurines, empty leather pouches, and unrecognizable dried herbs—but on the bottom was a fine white cotton handkerchief

The girl had fled, after being healed, and the mage was healing himself, grimacing. In the fight, he'd lost his hair tie, and his straw gold hair hung around his face. His coat was stiff and dark with blood, and his hands were bloody.

Fenris threw Anders the balled-up handkerchief.

“Make use of that before we go aboveground,” Fenris said. Being bloodsmeared was one way of attracting unwanted attention. If the mage cleaned his hands, they'd be able to escape much notice.

Anders caught the handkerchief, and made a noise of disbelief, like Fenris had lobbed him a squeaking fennec instead of a piece of cotton cloth.

“Is something wrong, Anders?” Hawke asked anxiously.

“Are you serious?” Anders asked Fenris, instead. But his mouth clicked closed immediately after.

“I'm serious about wanting to get out of Darktown, yes,” Fenris said, and turned to go.

Hawke strode up beside him, and behind him, Fenris could hear the shuffle of Anders' heavy, ill-fitting boots as they followed.

The mage loitered behind them until they reached Hawke's mansion, and pushed past them in the entryway, murmuring something about washing off the blood.

Hawke motioned Fenris into the well-appointed sitting room, where Hawke's mother sat, with a pile of correspondence next to her hand, writing busily.

“Mother,” Hawke said, going over to kiss Leandra on her grey head, before spinning on her heel and flopping onto a settee. Fenris nodded respectfully at the lady of the house, before sitting more decorously in an armchair. Leandra had never objected to any of Hawke's strange friends—perhaps Hawke's apostate father had similar taste in companions.

“That was strange,” Hawke said idly, staring at the ceiling. “When you gave Anders that cotton handkerchief, he looked like he was about to faint. Or explode. Very, very strange.”

Leandra gave an unladylike snort, not looking up from her letter, but it was enough for Fenris to look and for Hawke to raise her head in curiosity. Leandra tended towards the melancholy, and it was odd to hear her laugh.

“Oh, nothing, Marian, I just think—your father would have thought that was quite funny,” Leandra said, at her daughter's inquisitive stare. “Giving a Circle mage a handkerchief, I mean.”

“What do you mean?” Hawke said, sitting upright. Fenris noted her look of interest with a sinking feeling.

“Your father didn't like to talk about the Circle much,” Leandra said repressingly. And it would have ended at that, but Leandra's face, for a moment, softened in reminiscence. “Well, as he told me, most Circles do not allow...fraternization. Mages are meant to become vessels for the Chantry's will, almost priests, really. Any kind of special regard for another is considered dangerous.”

“That's so sad,” Marian said, the corners of her mouth turning down. Fenris felt a stirring of agreement in his chest, but refused to meet the glace Marian made in his direction. He had stated his opinion before, and wouldn't be swayed.

“So, as Malcolm put it, there developed, over the centuries, a way to...show regard, without arousing suspicion,” Leandra said, her face brightening as she spoke. “Through giving little gifts.”

“What?” Marian said, leaning forward eagerly.  
Leandra stood up, more animated that Fenris had ever seen her, and went to a side table, where a number of thin books sat.

“Are those father's notebooks?” Marian asked. “Where he talks about the Circle? I still maintain you should have let Bethy read those.”

“Yes, hush, and listen to this,” Leandra said, turning to a certain page,, and read.

“If Paper for the first gift you bestow,  
Then next a piece of cotton, is the way.  
A leather token then shall let them know  
A flower next shall your regard betray.  
Candy surely makes your lover sweet,  
A copper for the times both flush and poor  
A book will speed the hours 'till you next meet,  
And silk's the finest gift they will adore.  
But 'ware that they should gift you in return  
For hereafter all other gifts they'll spurn.”

Marian and Fenris sat for a moment, Marian in contemplation and Fenris in silent horror.

Then Marian's head whipped around, and she pointed at Fenris, seemingly too full of devilish glee to speak.

“Not a word,” Fenris groaned, sinking into the chair. Venhedis. He had given paper and then cotton, in succession. No wonder the mage had looked at him as though his lyrium had turned pink.

But then Fenris remembered that it had been four months since Satinalia, and Anders had been strangely conciliatory towards him since—not sweet, but gruffly diffident. And after that one occasion, where they had let go a very frightened young mage, barely an adult, and Fenris had said nothing (their story had been very pitiable, and the enormous green eyes of the youth incited a strange protectiveness), he could have sworn the mage had offered him a sliver of a smile.

“What's all this, then? Good evening, Serah Amell,” a voice said from the door.

Anders had cleaned up best as he could, and stood in the doorway, looking wary and out of place in the finery of the house. His hair still hung loose around his shoulders, and Fenris could see the bloody handkerchief, poorly hidden, in one of the pouches on Anders' belt. Like Anders was going to keep it. Like he wanted it.

Before he could think too hard about it, Fenris leaned over and plucked one of Marian's leather hair ties off her wrist (“Hey!”). He stood, and strode towards the door, while the mage shuffled aside, giving him a low glace. Quick as a striking snake, Fenris snatched the mage's hand, and before he could react, pressed the leather hair tie into it.

Fenris closed the mage's hand around the tie, studying his expression—startled, shocked, then disbelieving. As Anders tore his hand away, Fenris could see a brick-red flush start beneath his collar.

“Good night, everyone,” Fenris said, his eyes not leaving Anders', before he turned and let himself out.

* * *

 

(Art by helloprudabagastuff.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris had several days to rue his impulsiveness.

The way Anders had looked at him when he had pressed the hair tie into his hand was the most wide-open Fenris had ever seen him–before he had fled, Fenris could discern genuine shock beneath Anders’ blush. It took a lot to shock Anders, who seemed to meet the world with a combination of anger and cold humor.

 But Anders blushed like a raw youth when embarrassed. Had the man really been as much of a coquette as Isabela had implied to him, once? It seemed Anders was out of practice, now.

 Fenris resolved not to continue with the gifts–it had been a moment of dark whimsy that would surely earn him the enmity of the mage. Even in Fenris’ shallow experience, trifling with the affections of a lonely person was dangerous. And there was no man in Kirkwall more solitary than Anders. His self-appointed status as the bulwark of mage freedom made him so. 

Hawke, rogue that she was, told none of their companions about what had happened, and raised her eyebrows significantly at Fenris one night at Wicked Grace, tracing some undefinable pattern on the dirty table with her finger. When Fenris looked at her uncomprehendingly, she tilted her head towards Anders and mouthed the word _Flower?_

Fenris shook his head at her and she made an incredulous gesture. 

 _A flower next shall your regard betray,_ he could hear Leandra’s voice say. Anders, almost if hearing the thought, looked up at Fenris then. As their eyes met, Anders’ hand went to his belt pouch, as if feeling it was still there. 

Something heated in Fenris’ chest then–he would bet good sovereigns that the handkerchief he’d given was secreted in there, and that Anders was wearing the hair tie. The mage was clear as water, and Fenris wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or embarrassed for him. He finally settled on bemused and a little warmed by the idea, before challenging Isabela and Varric to a drinking contest to settle his nerves.

  
They rose early the next morning for a trip to Sundermount, with Hawke, Merill, Fenris and Anders making up the party. It was rough going from the start, and Fenris’ pounding head helped matters little.

  
A battle with slavers ended with Merrill whimpering from a poisoned wound, turning green and pale by turn, and with Anders complaining loudly from burns on his arms. Fenris supposed that there was a certain nobility in suffering one’s wounds quietly, but Anders’ wounds looked red and raw, and the hot sun beating down could only exacerbate them. He was also swaying on his feet from exhaustion, and Fenris could see behind them steam rising from their battleground. Anders had outdone himself, casing a number of their foes in tombs of ice.

Merrill was too nauseated to down many healing potions, and Anders stiffly and grimly began to sift through his meager supplies to make a poultice to draw out some of the poison in her wound. Hawke knelt down with the small elf in her lap, and Fenris stood at a loss. 

His eye caught on a patch of foliage, and he stilled.

It was too ridiculous to be borne. He had seen Crystal Grace before, even used it once when he had been struck with a poisoned quarrel. The tiny jewel-like flowers he had never seen before on Sundermount, but here they were.

They were excellent against poison. For a quick moment, he considered letting the mage work and not doing anything, but the blood mage’s pitiful retching had him pulling up a patch of flowers by the root. Pinching off a few of the blooms, he went over to the sitting mage, who ignored Fenris standing in front of him.

Fenris crouched, and spun in his fingers three Crystal Grace flowers under Anders’ nose.

The mage stilled in his poultice-making, and raised disbelieving golden eyes up to meet Fenris’.

Hawke made a gleeful noise which, when she tried to muffle it, turned into a honking sound.

“Am I going to die?” Merrill asked piteously.

Fenris felt a satisfied grin inching its way onto his face. It was strangely entertaining watching Anders fumble and blush, and he didn’t have to say a word or start a fight to render the mage quiet with disbelief. 

Anders snatched the tiny flowers from Fenris, and tossed two of them into his poultice, mashing them up with more force than needed, Fenris watching all the while. After applying the poultice and wrapping it tightly around Merrill’s wound, Anders left Merrill to have her hair stroked by Hawke, washing his hands in a nearby rivulet. Fenris drifted next to him, in time to see Anders furtively tuck away the last flower in his coat pocket.

Fenris could see when Anders became aware of his presence, as the mage stiffened.

They stood in silence for a moment, before Anders turned to face him.

“Don’t play with me like this, Fenris,” Anders said. He looked remarkably composed, though his expression was brittle. “It’s not that kind of game.”

It felt like a game, and one he was winning. Fenris filed Anders’ words away, and mulled over what he wanted to say in response, before deciding on:

“Are you wearing it? The hair tie?”

Anders' mouth twisted, and Fenris felt an uncomfortable pang, almost like pity. 

“I should have known you’d be this cruel,” Anders said icily.

“You could pick up a river pebble and hand it to me and that would be the end,” Fenris pointed out. He almost felt like protesting. He was many things, but cruel not one of them. It appeared Anders was taking this very seriously indeed, for a Circle-mage courting game most likely enjoyed by adolescents.  _“But ‘ware that they should gift you in return, for hereafter all other gifts they’ll spurn.”_

"How–where did–don’t quote that doggerel at me!” Anders said, almost staggering back. “So _you know_ what you are doing!”

“Paper, cotton, leather, flowers. The next was candy, I believe?” Fenris knew it was. The Circle chant was embedded in his brain, and he could probably recite it dead drunk.

“You can’t be serious,” Anders said. “I just–argh.” He rubbed his hands roughly against his robes and strode away, the effect ruined by the glance he cast backwards. 

Fenris watched the mage go, and pondered buying a handful of the toffees he had seen the mage eyeing covetously in the Hightown market the week before. Whether or not he’d give them to the mage was another matter. Fenris felt himself smile again.

* * *

 

(art by helloprudabagastuff.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

“If you push it, Blondie’s gonna hit back, you know,” Varric said to Fenris one night.

The elf stilled for a moment, then snorted into his drink. “I should not be surprised that you know about this, now. ”

“If it makes you feel any better, I had to shake it out of Hawke. She’s not so weaselly as to tell everyone about you pulling Blondie’s pigtail and trying to get him to notice you.”

“Kaffas,” Fenris muttered. He had days to think about the matter with Anders, and he felt both ashamed of himself and defensive. “Except for the instance with the hair tie, dwarf, it was all coincidental. It is over. It was a mad notion, and I’ve had precious few opportunities to indulge myself in mad notions in my life.”

“I’d feel better about it. elf, if you would tell Anders that, so the man can stop looking at you like you’re about to ambush him with dried fruit.”

“It’s supposed to be candy,” Fenris said.

The dwarf pointed a tankard at him. “No candy for the mage, Fenris.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Fenris said grimly. After the post-Satinalia days where Anders had treated him mildly, the mage had turned uncommunicative and silent in his presence. Whereas a few years before he would not have minded, every-too quiet visit to the clinic jabbed him with the all-too-familiar feeling of remorse for his actions.

It was early in the night, and Fenris trooped downstairs to bring another drink up for himself and the dwarf. The others had not arrived yet, and he was almost grateful for the opportunity to talk with Varric.  He’d sooner run naked through the Chantry than apologize for giving the mage some sorely needed trinkets, but it was a relief to tell himself _No more teasing, no more foolishness, no more making the mage look at me like I have punted a kitten across the room instead of handing him a much-needed handkerchief._

The bar was much busier than normal—a group of Kirkwallers, Lowtowners by their dress, were whooping and hollering in a corner. A young woman in a yellowed white dress was bustling around, handing small packages to the various bar attendees, who almost seemed tolerantly amused by the boisterous party.

The woman stopped by Fenris’ side, and with a shrug, handed him a small linen bag. “Bless us, Ser scary elf!” she said, her grin baring a few missing teeth. She then scampered back to her friends as if pleased with her own boldness.

“I hate wedding parties,” Corff grumbled as he handed Fenris a dusty smeared bottle of wine in return for coin.

Fenris ascended the stairs to Varric’s room, tucking the bottle of wine beneath his arm and emptying the bag into the palm of his hand. The irony did not escape him, as three almond paste-wrapped sweetmeats tumbled out. Resisting the urge to fling them onto the floor, he tipped two back into the bag and held one up in his clawed fingers for inspection. It looked safe enough, but perhaps he would let Varric eat one first—surely he was inured enough to Lowtown cooking by now.

It was a testament to his distraction that when a freckled pale hand with bitten-off nails grasped him around the wrist of his gauntlet, it truly took him by surprise.

Anders was standing in the hall outside Varric’s room, looking down at him, with a narrow-eyed look. Fenris had often suspected Anders had his own route into the Hanged Man, and here was confirmation—Anders had in no way passed through the main room of the bar.

Then Fenris realized what he was holding, in his own hand. _Venhedis._

“You can’t leave well enough alone, can you?” Anders said. “Well.” Both of their eyes fell to the sweet, dimpling between Fenris’ fingers in the hand held by Anders.

Fenris could only stand, stymied. This was a farce almost as contrived as the puppet shows put on in the Hightown market. Had the Maker decided that his life had seen enough tragedy, and wanted to see it turned a comedy instead?

“I did—I did not–” The words would not come. He had to tell the mage—he had meant nothing by it, he had already resolved to stop giving things to the mage, he was not cruel, it was not kind to tease this way.

Anders’ hand tightened around his gauntlet, and Fenris watched, stupefied, as Anders dipped his head and tongued the sweet into his mouth.

Fenris watched, his jaw dropping, as Anders’ pink tongue briefly brushed the gleaming metal of his clawed fingertips. How could a man taller than him look up from beneath his eyelashes? Fenris felt a heated flush begin to crawl up his neck.

Anders did not let go of his wrist, just closing his mouth around the sweetmeat, closing his eyes as if to savor it. Fenris almost dropped the wine bottle in the crook of his arm.

The sound of Varric’s door swinging open made them both start.

“What? Blondie? When’d you get here? What’s going on?”

“Mff,” Anders said, taken aback, one hand going to his mouth.

Varric stared at him a moment, and turned to Fenris, fire in his eyes. Curse the dwarf and his quick mind.

“Not five minutes after I tell you not to, elf, and you give him some damned candy? You–”

Fenris, at a loss, gently lobbed the wine bottle to Varric, who cursed and smoothly caught it, but it was more than enough time for Fenris to flee down the hallway. He hardly noticed that Anders was on his heels, his hand still firmly wrapped around his gauntlet.

Fenris drew a deep breath once he was outside, and turned to the mage—to shake him off, he told himself, or to pull him close, shake him, and ask what he was thinking, in that gleaming blond head of his, to see how those red lips tasted now, now that they were sweetened with honey and almond–

Fenris, stilling in shock at his own thought, nearly missed that Anders was holding in his free hand a small linen bag, and was staring down at it in horror.

“Fenris,” Anders asked after a moment, “Perchance did you receive that candy from the blushing bride that just shoved this into my hand?”

“Why did you follow me out?” Fenris demanded in turn.

“Varric looked mad, and I thought running was wise.” Anders responded, not meeting Fenris’ eyes. How different from the bold, challenging creature who had held Fenris’ hand in an unbreakable grip and lapped at his fingers with a yielding tongue moments before. Was this was Varric meant when he said Anders would hit back? That the foolish mage would escalate the situation to its breaking point?

“Do you always run when someone is angry at you?” Fenris said instead.

“You’re one to talk about running,” Anders retorted. “You booked it out of the Hanged Man like your flat arse was on fire.”

Fenris bristled, and pulled his hand from  Anders’ grip, finally.

“Varric’s going to be down here in moments. Unless you want to explain to him why you licked candy from my hand like a halla I suggest you to flee back to Darktown.”

Fenris spun on his heel and strode towards his home, trying not to rub the fingers of his left hand together.

* * *

  
  


Dwarves had long memories and were vindictive, Fenris concluded. At their next card night, Varric could not restrain himself from making quips and giving Fenris what Hawke called “the hairy eyeball.”

“So, Blondie, after Fenris gives you all that junk, what happens,” Varric finally said, leaning back in his chair, the picture of insouciance.

“We’re married,” Anders said, not looking up from his hand.

Fenris dropped his hand, the cards scattering across the table.

“Ooh, a flush!” Merrill said, examining his spilled cards.

“I’ll say!” Isabela said, looking Fenris over. “What’s this about marriage and Fenris’ junk?”

Fenris stared at Anders, whose head was bowed. Anders would not look up, and his mouth was quivering slightly. Fenris half stood, and banged his thighs on the table, and sat down again.

“Why did you not _say?”_ Fenris asked Anders, who seemed overwhelmed with pained emotion. He would not have _done this_ had he known, and now the mage would surely loathe him with all his being–

Anders looked up then, his eyes gleaming with tears, and Fenris felt his heart drop.

Then the mage gave up the pretense, and whooped with laughter, a shocking sound. Hawke and Varric were looking at him, the former in shock and the other with squinting disbelief, as the mage wiped his eyes with a ragged sleeve and fought for breath.

“I’ll join with you in—in holy magetremony–” Anders said. “Knickerweasels, your _face.”_

No more gifts, Fenris told himself furiously, as he watched the mage cry himself sick with laughter. No more!


	4. Chapter 4

Fenris, after being routed by Anders, was slumped over the bar, sharing a drink with Isabela.

“Trust mages to make fucking a complicated 10-step process,” she said, trying to pry Fenris’ fingers off the clay cup. Fenris, who was trying to drain it, tightened his grip. Whatever it was made his internal organs cringe, but he needed it.

He clapped the cup down on the bar and motioned for Corff and his identical twin brother to bring another.

“All I have to do is not give the mage a copper coin and everything is well,” he said.

“A copper? A lousy copper? If you give him a sovereign I bet even Justice would come out for a little nookie,” Isabela said, taking the drink the two Corffs brought.

“It’s all…worthless junk, Isabela,” Fenris groused. “Hawke’s mother told me it didn’t even—matter, the quality of the gifts. But now for the rest of my life I can’t ever hand the mage a copper without him—without him–”

“Andraste’s flaming nipples, you’re drunk,” Isabela said.

“Flaming Nipples for the rogue,” Norah bawled to the two Corffs. It sounded like it was coming from underwater.

“He’ll look at me like he’s dying,” Fenris said, eyes locking onto the bar top, which even sticky and scratched was looking more and more comfortable. “Or he’ll look at me like it’s all a joke, but I’m no fool, he makes the worst jokes when he’s angry.”

“When did you become an Anders expert—shit, Corff, what are those?”

Corff, with his four hands, slid two flaming shot glasses in front of them.

“I guess I’m not complaining—Fenris, blow it out before you drink it–oh _damn._ ”

* * *

The next morning, both Isabela and Fenris were sporting massive headaches, and when Anders, pacing in front of Hawke’s house, caught sight of them, he seemed torn between laughter and scolding.

“Anders, you beautiful creature,” Isabela moaned as Anders, motioning them both out of sight, took her head between his hands and concentrated. Fenris, in between not trying to throw up, noted that his magic, even his healing, was showy and spectacular, great splashes of blue light illuminating the shadows of the morning that remained. He scowled, and kept a wary eye on the mouth of the alcove they were secreted in. Magic was no thing to be done by daylight, outside.

“I’ll drop a silver by later,” Isabela said, her brow clearing and her color improving even as Fenris watched. “No, two silvers, Anders, you miracle.”

Anders finished with a flourishing gesture,  then looked to Fenris. And waggled his fingers.

Swallowing his pride (and a frisson of nerves) Fenris nodded. But he could not help but close his eyes, even as Anders’ large rough hands closed around his skull, thumbs pressing below the base of his ears where the pounding was the strongest. The sudden lessening of the pressure in his brow was like a wave of cool relief, and Fenris’ knees sagged, necessitating a steadying hand on Anders’ arm.

“Your mouth is burned,” Anders’ normally clarion voice murmured, close to his face. His breath smelled sweet, like some spicy herb. “I’ll get that too—how will you berate Merrill and I if your mouth is hurt, eh?”

Anders’ thumb rested over his lips then, pressing into the burn that Fenris could not remember receiving, and the tight hot soreness of Fenris’ mouth eased as well. Anders’  other hand had not moved, and his fingers were a warm weight, threading through the hair at the back of his neck.

Fenris waited, then opened his eyes. Anders was gazing down at him, and after a moment, the lines around Anders’ eyes crinkled up into a smile.

“What, do you want a silver from me too?” Fenris said, in order to break the taut silence between them. Then winced at how ungrateful and sour he sounded. In Minrathous such skillful healing would easily cost a sovereign, and he’d never had the luxury to be healed so quickly and un-begrudgingly. How could he express his thanks?

“No,” Anders said, his voice low and intimate, the slightest movement tilting Fenris’ head up more. Fenris’ self-directed ire vanished, replaced with an unexpected thrill, like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, toes curling over the edge. Sweat prickled on his lower back, and he stared into Anders’ golden eyes.

He could still taste magic, on the tip of his tongue.

“All I want from you…” Anders said, smiling invitingly…

“…is a copper _coin_ ,” he finished,  his voice tilting up at the end, like he was being squeezed around the middle, and then Anders was laughing at him.

Again.

Fenris tore away from the hands holding his face, and stormed away to bang on Hawke’s door. He could hear Anders’ wheezing behind him like a bellows, like he hadn’t laughed in many a year and it was nearly painful.

As Hawke blearily opened her door, Fenris could hear Isabela’s snort. “Keep it up, Anders, and he’ll pummel you one of these days,” he heard her say.

That was the problem, Fenris thought with a bit of despair, as Hawke motioned him in. He couldn’t hear Anders’ response, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t want to hit Anders, felt no desire to blacken his pretty eyes or split his lip–the idea of it was more sickening than the hangover had been.

Instead, he had badly wanted to kiss him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is SO SHORT and involves NO GIFTS, just the mention of one. Apologies!


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke had introduced a new card game to them, explaining that it had been a game often played amongst her fellow soldiers in Ferelden. The rules were easy enough. They'd all picked it up and were playing steadily when Anders struck.

“I'm stealing a copper from Fenris,” Anders announced, sliding a coin over from Fenris' stash with one finger.

Fenris had the Captain of the Guard in his deck, but he suspected Hawke had the Smuggler, so he said nothing.

Then his gaze sharpened at the furious eyebrow-waggling Isabela was directing towards Hawke.

“Thank you, Fenris,” Anders said huskily. But there was an undertone of laughter to his voice that raised Fenris' hackles.

Varric made a noise like he had inhaled some of the bar's special brew up his nose.

“I block your theft,” Fenris said sharply.

“Show me your Captain of the Guard then,” Anders said, not relinquishing the coin, instead picking it up, and turning it over and over again in his fingers, hypntically. Fenris had to keep himself from crushing the cards in his hands as Anders, his eyes dipping, ran the edge of the coin over the bottom of his lip.

Fenris scowled and showed him the card.

“Aw,” Anders said…petulantly.

Varric coughed ale out of his mouth.

Both Anders and Fenris ended up losing every round, mostly because Fenris was frantically avoiding every instance of Anders receiving a copper from his hands. At the end, as they all retrieved their tokens, Anders was dramatically pouting, and leaning over to whisper to Isabela, his eyes meeting Fenris' every time.

Fenris pushed away from the table to get some air.

Somehow, it seemed inevitable that Anders should come and find him, leaning outside against the front of the Hanged Man.

“Mage, leave me alone,” Fenris said, before Anders opened his mouth. “I concede your point. Cease this mockery.”

“Like you ceased when I asked you?” Anders said sharply, his posture going from laguid to hunched, instantly. “I told you it wasn't a game, but you wanted to play, anyway.”

“Does it matter?” Fenris said. “Let it go.”

“It matters more than you could ever imagine,” Anders said furiously. “You have no idea what you are doing, what you are trifling with!”

“And I don't care,” Fenris bit out.

Anders strode towards him, and loomed. “You _bastard--”_

Fenris stopped him, with one hand on his chest, slowly clenching into the old ragged fabric there. It was not meant as a threat, but Anders' face paled anyway, as if Fenris had raised his sword to him.

“Return to me one of the trinkets, and let's be done, mage,” Fenris said, almost coaxingly.

Anders' face twisted.

“If you knew anything at all, you'd know that's not how it works,” he said, and to Fenris' horror, Anders' voice cracked at the end.

“Then how does it work,” Fenris heard himself asking. Anders' skin was very warm beneath his shirt. “What is this, Anders?”

Instead of answering, Anders looked down, then looked away. He stood his ground, but like a man on a riverbank in a flood, rooted to the only solid ground in sight.

Fenris had never seen anyone so unhappy.

It fed something in him, a feeling of shame and regret, and a desire to go back to how things had been before, when they were simpler, when it was easy to hate this man, instead of--

Fenris felt his extremities go cold. _Impossible._

With a hiss, he tore his coin pouch from his belt and flung it at the mage. The mage winced as it hit his solar plexus, and caught it.

“There ought to be a copper in there,” Fenris said coldly, and pushed by him.

He was halfway down the stairs when he heard the clatter of ill-mended boots behind him.

“Fenris!” Anders shouted, and he only had a moment to spin, as his own coin purse was thrown back at him. Fenris tried not to wince as he caught it in his palm—it was heavy with coin.

For a moment his stomach dropped, and he stared at the purse in his hand. Over? Was that it?

“All I wanted was this,” Anders said from the top of the stairs. glaring down at him. Fenris only caught a glimpse of the light of a torch off the edge of a coin. Then Anders was gone, turning on his heel off into the hot, muggy night.


	6. Chapter 6

“Mother, I'm—oh, Fenris!”

Fenris nodded at Hawke, whose face was flushed with the day’s heat, almost glowing in the cool dimness of the Amell library.

“Welcome back, Marian,” Leandra said, a pale statue in comparison.

“What are you two doing?” Hawke said curiously. And then her eyes fell onto the notebook lying in front of them.

“Father’s notebook?” Hawke asked, her voice lilting up at the end. “Is this about…?”

“Yes, “ Fenris said, keeping himself from sighing.

“Well,” Hawke said. “Don’t mind _me.”_ She slid over to a nearby chair and hitched her legs on the settee, trying to look nonchalant.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Leandra said dryly, then turned back to the notebook.

“Many Circle mages are scholars—Malcolm said that it was one of the only paths to advancement in the Circle other than politics,” she said, turning a page with a slender hand. “Malcolm found that confining, to say the least. But it was part of his training, to pay attention, and record.”

“In Lothering, he would sit and scribble in these books about his adventures. He said once that he might publish a book on Circle customs, but…”

“But?” Fenris prompted.

Leandra shrugged, a light, ladylike thing. “But he told me once that he would never countenance exposing the few comforts the mages had to Templar scrutiny.”

“Here,” she said, and with just the barest flicker of her eyes at Fenris—Fenris supposed she was too well-bred to actually offer to read to him, in case it would embarrass him–she began to speak.

“Mages in the circle use the exchanging of trinkets as a courting game, but its intentions are often deadly serious, and are as much a manner of building friendships and alliances. The true meanings behind each of the gifts has been lost to time, though we can speculate.”

“Paper is a common commodity exchanges amongst scholar-mages—innocuous enough to never cause an eyebrow to be raised. This is considered an overture of friendship.”

“Cotton formerly was a valuable commodity in ancient times, but was adopted immediately as a light and pleasant alternative to wool. Its modern meaning implies a desire for confidences and mutual protection.”

“Leather, whether in the form of gloves, a coin purse, or other objects of worth, is used as a desire to be of use to the other, or the giving of favor in ones’ time of need.”

“The giving of a flower is when the ritual pivots to the explicitly romantic. To be sure, the giving of the prior gifts is often construed as romantic as well—especially if given in quick succession. Flowers are not as hard to acquire as one might think, in the confines of the Circle—often mages have access to rooftop gardens, and supplies of healing herbs are, in more well-stocked situations, shipped in from surrounding farms. However, due to the regulations of more stringent Circles (keeping mages from venturing out on rooftops or from access to potientally poisonous herbs) this makes flowers symbolically difficult to acquire.They imply a possibly temporary, yet tender and beautiful, connection.”

“The giving of something sweet was usually reciprocated with a kiss–” Leandra’s reading stopped.

“A kiss?” Hawke said incredulously. “Fenris, did Anders–”

“He did not, no need to worry, Hawke,” Fenris said. Hawke had sat bolt upright, and meeting Fenris’ eyes, she seemed to relax.

After a moment of gazing at his face, she added, “Of course, if you wanted him to kiss you, that’d be ok, Fenris, too.”

“He knows that, Marian,” Leandra said exasperatedly

“I know that, Hawke,” Fenris said, nearly in unison. Now both women were looking at him, and he felt discomfort’s ebb and flow.

“Ah,” Leandra said, after a moment.

“'Ah,’ what, Mother?” Hawke said.

Fenris supposed that being a noblewoman trained one to read between the lines. At least Hawke still looked nonplussed.

Leandra closed the little volume and slid it towards Fenris.

“Lady Amell–” Fenris began–

“Please, Fenris,” Leandra said. “Take it. Perhaps give it back at some point, but for now, I think it will serve you better than me.” She rose, and with a short smile for her daughter, made her way out of the library.

“Mother, are you all right?” Hawke asked.

“I’m fine, my darling,” Leandra said. But then she hesitated, half over the threshold.

“It’s that…talking about your father still makes me very sad, Marian,” Leandra said. “Fenris?”

Fenris got slowly his feet and nodded to Hawke, who looked poleaxed. He could feel his ears burning slightly as Leandra walked into the foyer of her fine house. She looked at the book Fenris held in one hand, and sighed.

“Best of luck, Fenris. It’s no easy thing to love a Circle mage.”

“Love a–-”

“Or maybe I’m mistaken,” Leandra said. “It’s quite possible. You know, being with Malcolm, leaving everything I’d ever knew was the hardest thing I’d ever done. But…”

“Yes?” Fenris prompted, almost afraid for her to keep speaking.

“To me…it felt like freedom. At least for a little while.” Leandra smiled at him again, and inclined her head. Fenris watched her slowly ascend the great staircase, and took his leave, feeling little desire to face Hawke after his very revealing conversation with her mother.

Clutching the notebook in his gauntleted hand, he turned decisively towards Darktown.

* * *

 

The cavernous hallways of the Undercity rang with shouts and imprecations, and Fenris moved swiftly. The lantern of Anders’ clinic cast its sickly golden light into the darkness, and Fenris, taking his cue from hundreds before him, entered without knocking.

There Anders was his arms full of glass bottles, lining them up on a table.

“Who—oh.”

Fenris’ heart clenched at the look on Anders’ face. Bitter, bitter, like he’d taken a sip from a bottle of wine that had long ago turned into vinegar.

Anders’ eyes fell on the notebook Fenris held in one hand.

“Maker, is that for me?” Anders said, sardonically. “I’m all aflutter.”

“No, it does not even belong to me,” Fenris said—no blustering or denial this time.

“It’s just as well,” Anders said, putting down the last bottle forcefully, and turning to go behind his desk. Something had changed, Fenris realized, for Anders not to leap over the desk and try to wrest the book from him.

“I…misunderstood, the meaning of this game,” Fenris said.

Anders _hmmed_ distantly.

“I thought it was merely a courting game, a silly ritual,” Fenris said, his throat going dry as Anders refused to look at him. “But Leandra…gave me this, Malcolm’s notebook.”

Fenris had, in the weak light of the Hightown torches, painstakingly read the rest of the description of the courting game. Finishing it had sped his steps to the clinic.

“You were not joking, earlier,” Fenris said slowly. “The end of the game is…binding for both players. A marriage.”

“ _Not_ a marriage.” Anders said. “Chantry law is against mages marrying, having children.”

“But it is as close as you can get,” Fenris insisted. “When we began…this, I had thought it would have meant nothing. Surely someone such as you was given dozens of handkerchiefs, flowers, coins.”

That made Anders pause, an almost full-body stutter. “I should be insulted. What are you implying?” Anders said lightly, after a moment. But his whole posture was tense, like a bowstring drawn too tightly.

“But you were so affronted by the whole affair,” Fenris pressed. “And I know why, now.”

“Do you.” A statement, not a question. Fenris nodded sharply.

“Four years ago. The Tranquil in the Chantry. He was–”

“ _No_ ,” Anders said, and suddenly Fenris could taste ozone in his mouth, making it water. It was in his nose, a metallic itch, and Fenris resisted rubbing at it. 

Instead, he met Anders' eyes, which were full of denial.

“He was—yours,” Fenris finished, lamely. “He was your husband. Or near as.”

Anders’ face contorted, and Fenris saw him shake, like a great animal kept on a leash, barely restrained from leaping. A blue spark jumped from his clenched hands, to skitter across the desk and die.

Fenris felt his hair stir, as if moved by a breeze, and firmly told himself now was not the time to begin fearing the mage.

Anders tore his eyes away, seemingly incoherent in fury, and yanked a package from a cubby in his desk, throwing it upon the surface.

“For your information,” Anders said, raging, “No one thought I was _worth_ courting. I got _nothing._ I didn't  _need_ flowers, or a Maker-damned hanky in order to kiss someone, in order to—ugh.”

Fenris sucked a breath in through his nose sharply. He had been…wrong?

“That is–until Karl.” Anders said.  “And that is all you’ll get from me. That’s it. Enough. You’ve trampled all over the one joy I ever took from that hell.”

He flung the package at Fenris, who held an arm up in defense, but it was soft. He caught it in one hand as it fell, and stared at it—whatever it was, wrapped in rough cloth.

“Get out,” Anders said. “That’s it. You have lost. Out.”


	7. Chapter 7

Fenris walked back to the lift in an angry haze.

Though, it had to be admitted, he was largely angry at himself.

He had tried to stop, but Anders had pulled him by the wrist into the mire with him.

As the ancient pulleys of the lift creaked and blew, Fenris tried to remember anything about the Tranquil Anders had killed in the Chantry. He got an impression of neat robes, grey hair—a colorless man, except for the scabbed sunburst above his brow.

It was ridiculous, he told himself, that such a person could have been the only one to give Anders courting gifts. Anders shone brightly even in the depths of the Undercity—one of the reasons it had been so easy to tease him is that Fenris could so easily see him accumulating coins, gloves, flowers from lovestruck mages. In Minrathous, Danrarius was considered a fringe element—Fenris had realized this in retrospect. The man had no family, devoted much of his time to experiments and rituals, and had done little to endear himself to his peers. Fenris had been present during meetings where magisters had shaken with fear around the man—and those were the ones who were his political allies. The meetings with Danarius' enemies had often been short and bloody.

It felt like a long walk back to the mansion, and what was inside the package Anders had thrown at him was eating him with curiosity. It felt light and soft, like a piece of clothing. Fenris still carried Malcolm's journal, and resolved, whatever it was, to decipher its meaning once he had opened it.

Soon he stood in his own room, and setting down the package and the notebook, he carefully unpicked the knots holding the package closed. Unpeeling the rough cloth, he found himself more confused than ever.

A plain black coat. Anders had given him a coat? A _coat?_

Fenris picked it up gingerly. On second inspection, it looked more cloak like, but was nonetheless a dull, light-sucking black. The fabric was oddly heavy, and, inspecting it, Fenris flipped it inside out, and his breath caught.

The inside of the coat was lined in a shimmering layer of fabric, that as he turned it in the faint light from the hall gleamed fainly blue. It was slightly cool to the touch, more so than it had any right to be in the warmth of his close room.

Part of Fenris wanted to place it in a chest and forget about it. But curiosity spurred him to take off his gauntlets, then to gingerly pull on one sleeve, than the other. It felt light and soft, with toggles across the front to close it. Annoyingly, it fit perfectly.

He stripped it off and tossed it on a table, and threw himself into reading Malcolm's diary. Surely it could offer some insight.

It was the pale hours of the morning before he found the passage that he wanted.

_Should the recipient of the gifts want to reject the advances of their fellow mage, they must give a gift in return. Typically this gift is decidedly richer than all those given before—why, the curious outsider might ask? Why should the giver be warned off and rewarded, simultaneously? It is simple. The returned gift is usually valuable and eye-catching. All the better to catch the attention of the templars, who suspecting a budding affaire de coeur will do their utmost to keep the two mages apart._

He eyed the cloak on the table. The coat was well-made and well-fitting, but not eye-catching—and despite the mystery of the lining, not valuable either. Fenris clapped the book shut and prepared for bed with a studied nonchalance, despite his solitude. It was over, and he would not wear the damned thing. Let Anders see what he made of his gift.

It was weeks until Fenris was given the knowledge of what Anders' gift was.

He had encountered Sebastian in a Hightown plaza—Fenris moving on the edges of the road, all the better to ignore the cold eyes of the nobles, whose elven servants knew better to keep out of the marble passageways that led to their Viscount and their Chantry. It was good to see the Brother again, and Fenris allowed him to walk the rest of the way to his mansion together, the Brother wincing at the disarray in his front hall. Once ensconced in his room, Fenris was gathering a few cups and a pack of cards when he heard Sebastian exclaim aloud.

“It was no ordinary brigand that you took this from, my friend,” Sebastian commented, a finger hooked into the black coat, still crumpled on Fenris' table. It was even half crushed beneath a few books, and as Sebastian shook it loose and held it up as reverently as an altarcloth, Fenris felt a sense of foreboding.

“You know what it is, then,” he said.

“You do not?” Sebastian said. “It's a Cloak of the Fallen Star. How did you come across such a princely item? At home—I mean, in Starkhaven, it is considered a king's gift. I would recognize this dye and weave anywhere. The style is unusual, but it looks like it would suit you well.” Tbe Brother turned over a corner of the sleeve, exposing the lining. “Pretty work.”

Fenris did not know whether to laugh or curse, but stared at the cursed rich cloak. How had he not seen it before—it was a fine gift, each stitch invisible and the dye even and deep. He cleared his throat, and said roughly, “It is too much frippery for me.”

“Frippery?” The Brother set the coat down on his lap and smoothed it. “Fenris, it's enchanted all but to Orlais and back. Noblemen would walk naked in the streets to own one—wearing one makes one highly, nigh all but immune to...”

“To?” Fenris prompted.

“Well, _magic.”_

Fenris felt his jaw drop, and resisted running his hand fitfully through his hair. _Anders._

“But blood magic in particular. Did you not know?” Sebastian said worriedly. “There are very few of them, and those who craft them are very protective of their secrets. They say its close to impossible to feel the effects of blood magic while wearing one, and that any attempt fails, like water down glass. It's very nearly worth this house.”

Fenris held out a hand for it, and Sebastian, still looking befuddled, handed him the coat.

“I need to—to go to Darktown. We can speak another day—I apologize,” Fenris said, regretting as soon as the words left his mouth. But he needed to get to the bottom of this.

Sebastian's eyes narrowed in thought. But instead of an outburst, or a questing comment, the Brother merely huffed out a breath.

“Do you wish for company?” Sebastian said.

“No, I know where I am going,” Fenris said.

Sebastian nodded, and seemingly came to a decision. “We will speak another day, then. Though should you come to blows in Darktown, I am slightly afraid for your safety, despite your prowess—the apostate will not be there to aid you. 

Fenris tried not to react overmuch, but Sebastian saw his querying face and sighed.

“I just came from Hawke's home,” Sebastian explained. “The apostate and the dwarf were there—Anders had run into some trouble and came out a bit worse for wear.”

Fenris could hardly bring himself to bid the Brother goodbye, and it was a relief when Sebastian had not insisted on dogging his steps, for Fenris did not plan on going to Darktown at all. After a moment of agonizing, he brought the coat with him—it was still unassuming, still plain. Perhaps Sebastian was mistaken, but he had seemed convinced of the coat's provenance. Where had the shabby apostate found the coin? What had happened to him?

These were the thoughts that accompanied him to the door of Hawke's mansion, and as Bodhan let him in, he was able to follow the sound of a heated argument coming from the upper floor.

In front of the fire, stood Hawke—next to her Varric, with his arms crossed, a nigh unseen look of recrimination on his face. On a settee sat Anders—incongruously with Leandra next to him, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.

His bloodied, bruised face—a split lip and purpling redness around the hollow of one eye, and a steadily dripping nose. Something else was off about him, but Fenris could not figure out what for the life of him.

Fenris suddenly felt like killing something.

“Maker,” Anders said bitterly, as he noticed Fenris standing still as a statue. “I thought I'd sent Prince Prays-a-Lot packing and that would be enough, but no.”

Varric snorted, then composed himself. “You can't distract us by spatting with the elf, Anders,” he said warningly.

“Who did this?” Fenris said, hoping that his unbidden fury was not apparent to the others. Hawke's mouth twitched, so he was apparently unsuccessful.

“Coterie,” Varric supplied. “Imagine how upsetting it was, to go down into the Undercity with Hawke, for a healing potion and a chat, and finding one's favorite, if extremely stupid healer apostate, in the midst of a truly fabulous shakedown by thugs which could have been avoided _if he had his damned staff.”_

“They weren't going to hurt me,” Anders said waspishly. But his face had gone pale at the mention of his staff, and he had torn his eyes away from Fenris once Varric mentioned it. “They—heard I had something, that's all.”

Fenris was no fool, and instead of his anger abating, it became tinged with incredulity. The coat hung heavy in his hand—none of the others had noticed it yet.

“So there are two questions,” Hawke said. She was generally a light-hearted woman, but she was also sharp and keen, and Fenris had seen her find weaknesses in her foes and mercilessly exploit them before. She was pressing Anders now. “One: what did they want? And two: why were you out in one of the most dangerous areas of the entire Marches without your weapon, Anders?”

Anders looked furious, and opened his mouth—likely to argue that he was not helpless or a fool, and Fenris knew that he would evade and dodge the real question until he was blue in the face. Fenris cut him off with a jerk of his hand, and Anders' eyes fell to the coat he clenched in his hand, and he suddenly looked panicked.

“He sold it,” Fenris said ruthlessly. “For coin.”

A moment of silence greeted his statement. Anders dropped his face into one hand.

“That was foolish,” Leandra said to Anders, breaking the hush.

Varric made a noise like steam escaping a Lowtown vent.

“You seem to know more about this than I do, Fenris,” Hawke said genially. A man who did not know her as well would say she seemed unangered, but she was obviously (to Fenris) ready to be at any moment.

Anders glanced over at a window as if assessing his chances of escaping through it.

“I must talk to him first, and then you two can have at him,” Fenris said.

“I thought your little game was over,” Varric said. His eyes told Fenris _It had better be._

“As did I,” Fenris said. Anders looked to be seriously considering the window.


	8. Chapter 8

Anders, once they were alone, looked more than a little wild around the eyes. 

Unexpectedly it had been Leandra who had risen to usher her daughter and Varric from the upper floor–from what Fenris had heard of her youth, he supposed a bit cynically, perhaps it was not a surprise. She had been nothing but courteous and helpful to him, but he could not miss the flicker of excitement in her eyes as he came into the room to such a dramatic scene. 

Romance and skulduggery seemed to run on both sides of the family. Maybe she was hoping Fenris and Anders would feel inspired to jump into a clinch once the others were out of sight.

 Anders, still battered, didn’t look exactly kissable–he had brought up his hands to his face, and healing magic began to well up between his fingers.

Anders’ magic was too spectacular, Fenris noted. All shine and sputtering energy, and too wondrous for words. It was graceless compared to the magic of Tevinter–all that wasted mana would have an apprentice beaten. 

 He didn’t have to ask why Anders had only stopped to heal himself now. The dwarf and Hawke had probably hustled him to Hightown before he’d even had the chance to get his feet under him. Finally he was done–disreputable looking as ever, but his eyes were clear and his face no longer swollen.

 Fenris brandished the cloak. 

“Do you have any idea what this is?”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Anders responded scaldingly.

 Fenris supposed that was fair, but let the question hang for a moment in the air, making Anders grimace. Leandra had relinquished the handkerchief, and he was dabbing at his own nose. 

 "Will I be hearing the happy announcement from Hawke, or from Leandra herself?“ he said.

 "Funny,” Anders said, his expression saying that it was anything but.

 A stream of blistering invective reached their ears. Anders winced and Fenris felt his eyebrows rise. Varric and Hawke were taking Anders’ mugging much more seriously than the man itself, who seemed to regard it as a mildly obnoxious hindrance rather than a play on his life. 

 The lack of Anders’ staff was gaping, now that Fenris had noticed–in all honesty, he probably would not last a week without a way to protect himself. 

 Fenris tossed the coat to Anders. “Barter for your staff back,” he said brusquely.

 Anders caught it, but looked almost as if Fenris had slapped him instead. 

 "You have to keep it,“ he responded. Fenris felt like baring his teeth at the woebegone look that crossed Anders’ face for only a moment, before it hardened into his usual grim look.

 "I don’t have to do anything you tell me to,“ Fenris said. 

"We don’t ever have to talk about this again, just keep it.” Anders said, flinging it back for him to catch from the air. “That’s the end of the game–" 

 Fenris groaned loudly, startling Anders into silence. "Who cares?” he exclaimed. “We are not in the Circle, I’m not a love struck mageling, and I don’t understand what possessed you to think selling your staff and getting a beating is worth satisfying the requirements of an annoying custom." 

 When he had finished speaking, the room was quiet–too quiet. Anders got to his feet. "I’m not having this out with the biggest gossip in Kirkwall listening in downstairs,” he said. 

 He went over an unlatched the window. 

“No, you’re joking,” Fenris said, watching as Anders gripped the wood of the terrace covering the front of Hawke’s house and swung a leg over the sill.

 Anders didn’t seem to think that merited a response, and with remarkable agility disappeared from sight. 

 Fenris contemplated using the front door, but he found little desire in himself to face the others. Cursing the mage for a fool and pulling the coat up over his arms, he darted to the window and climbed down after him. 

 Fenris’ bare feet met the stones nearly as soon as Anders’ boots, and his strides matched the mage’s as he beat a retreat towards Lowtown, an open-mouthed guard watching them go. 

 “Piss off,” Anders said. Then: “It fits. Good. Please piss off forever so I can go back home in peace.”

 Hawke would be angry at both of them, Fenris thought, then dismissed it.

 “And what good will you be to your patients without your staff,” he demanded. “Where did you sell it to? I will go buy it back and we will be even, though I will be hard-pressed to not break it over my knee.” 

 "I don’t heal with my staff,” Anders said scornfully. “I would explode someone. And a good staff like that will be off making some happy apostate somewhere very powerful by now.” 

"Oh, good,” Fenris said with all the sarcasm he could muster. 

 Then, an arrow whistled by Anders’ ear. 

 With his bodyguard’s reflexes, Fenris shoved Anders to the ground, and drew his sword. The scream of Lethendralis being drawn from its sheath seemed to draw the skulking forms of a gang bent on a mugging and a murder.

 Fenris racked his brain for the name of the gang–the Bearded Thrifters?

 He fell into a crouch and called on the power of markings, feeling the familiar burn–but then Fenris stumbled in horror.

 His markings wouldn’t light.

 He heard Anders cry out behind him, and as a rogue dove at him, on instinct Fenris lashed out, catching him along the side with the claws of gauntlets.

 Fenris expected his fingers to skitter over the metal and leather of their armor, to bounce off harmlessly, but instead the rogue shrieked as Fenris’ hand gouged into him–as if… 

As if his markings were working perfectly, despite their darkness. 

 The fight took longer than usual, as off-balance and dazed as Fenris was–he saw a number of the gang staggering from being struck by spirit bolts, and when the last mugger fell, he felt a wave of unneeded healing magic pour over him. 

 Anders stood close to where he’d fallen, and was looking over Fenris intently. 

Fenris had to keep himself from raising his arms in supplication–what was wrong with him?

 "Are you hurt?” Anders said, coming over to him, all business. “I’ll have a bruise on my ass for days, thank you Fenris.” He glanced down at Fenris’ bloody hands.

 "My…markings,“ Fenris said, throat dry. He was in no mood to point out that it was probably his own actions that kept Anders from getting an arrow in one of his pretty eyes. 

 "They didn’t light up,” Anders agreed. “But they worked?" 

 Fenris raised one hand, and fazed his fingers into nothingness–an eerie sight, without their bright blue glow. 

"As near as I can tell.”

 "Well,“ Anders said. "I’m glad it worked. I hope you’re pleased. Why do you look so shocked?”

 "You…“ Fenris looked down at his hands–and at the cuff of his coat. 

 The coat.

 "You did this,” Fenris said, and the tone of his voice made Anders step away, hands upraised. 

 "Is this…Fenris, it’s been weeks, is this really the first time you’ve put it on?“

 Fenris rounded on him. "How dare you do this without my knowledge, experiment on me–”

 "Experiment?“ Anders exclaimed. "I tested it on myself, Fenris. And the lyrium weave is harmless–I wore it for years before–before recently. This was the only thing I thought would work–to stop your markings from showing through.”

 "Don’t you remember,“ Anders pressed, "Years ago, you complained to Varric that the markings would glow through anything? They won’t anymore. You could practically be a rogue now. No more glowing elf. I thought you’d be pleased.”

 Fenris could hardly keep himself from sputtering in indignation–but the words of the mage struck him like a hammer to a bell–his markings did not glow, but still worked. When he was stressed or fearful, or in danger, they would not give him away. They would just seem like regular tattoos.

 Anders was looking at him expectantly. 

“We both could have died, mage!”

 Anders’ mouth quirked. He looked relieved. 

 "I doubt you would have cared if I’d died,“ he said. "Kirkwall would certainly be less annoying for you." 

 Fenris felt in him a sense of virulent wrongness, that the mage should think so of him. And perhaps his antipathy showed on his face, because Anders stopped and stared at him, before restlessly running one hand through his disheveled hair. When he looked at Fenris again, he had a smirk on his face.

 "Or maybe I’m wrong, and you love me, and can’t live without me, and this has all been an elaborate farce because you are emotionally constipated and bad at feelings,” Anders said lightly.

 Fenris laughed, surprising both of them. How ironic. Fenris had long ago admitted much of the same to himself. 

 "Or. Maybe that could be said about you, as well,“ Fenris said lowly.

 Anders flinched as if struck.

 Fenris gazed at him, across the cobblestones and blood. Distantly some part of him knew that they should flee, that the guard would come soon, that morning was only hours away. Another part of him insisted that he stay where he was and watch the comprehension dawn on Anders’ face.

 "What do you mean,” Anders whispered, “‘As well’”?


	9. Chapter 9

Fenris felt the words build up behind his teeth, and he took a single step towards Anders, who looked at him with eyes shadowed by the night. He thought of those few weeks after he had given the mage the handkerchief, when he’d been…kind. Almost sweet, in the way that he was to Hawke, nearly always. At that point, Anders must have known there was no way for Fenris to have known of the Circle ritual—Fenris remembered Anders’ shocked expressions, free from the anger and mockery that came later, and realized that Anders must have found Fenris’ unknowing actions charming, in a bittersweet way.

Fenris could understand his anger, when Fenris had started giving him the gifts with intention. The first…he had wanted to confirm what Leandra had told him, and his curiosity had been instantly satisfied. The rest of the times had been happenstance. But he had been a fool, and had knowingly pressed down on what to Anders was obviously still a painful wound.

Then he heard the shouting of the guard. Surrounded by shredded bodies, whether or not they were those of brigands, was no place for an elf and an apostate to be.

“Come,” he hissed to Anders, who was still standing, poleaxed.

Anders nodded, and the two of them took off at a trot, Anders significantly louder on the pavement than Fenris. They got to a “Y” in the streets, and as Anders turned towards where the road led to Darktown, they both froze as a cacophony of yelling echoed up the street. Fenris grabbed Anders’ arm and pulled him the other way.

“All the running,” Anders said under his breath. Fenris felt inclined to quip that they both at least had experience on that front, but they were at his mansion then, and Fenris was throwing open the door.

He could feel Anders quail, and bit back an irrational desire to snap at him, to ask what he was so afraid of. Instead he shut the door, and the light from the lit Hightown torches was abruptly gone.

“Oh Maker,” Anders said softly. Fenris didn’t ask, but unerringly pulled him up the stairs, stopping him from stumbling on more than one occasion. On the foyer, Anders pulled away and lit a magelight, casting his face into brightness.

“Some of us aren’t elves, you know,” he said indignantly, and Fenris rolled his eyes, opening the door into his room. Anders’ boots crunched loudly on the floor, and Fenris belatedly remembered the mess of glass and sticky wine that coated it

“You can stay here until it’s clear,” he informed Anders, picking up a bottle of wine and phasing out the cork. The darkness of his brands still gave him chills, and Anders must have noticed how he wrung out his hand afterwards.

“Does it hurt?” he asked sharply, as though it mattered.

“No,” Fenris said, and took a shallow sip from the bottle.

Anders huffed, and flung himself into a chair, his magelight bobbing over his shoulder. Not all of the creaks came from the chair, and as Anders shifted Fenris recalled that the man had just been beaten. Even magical healing left a tenderness to the skin and the bones.

Fenris struggled with himself for a moment, and then silently offered the bottle.

Anders eyed it warily.

“Don’t tell me—” Fenris started.

“No,” Anders said, indignantly, and took the bottle, taking a gulp. He seemed to become more boneless then, and Fenris, perching on a table and crossing his arms, studied him.

“You really won’t take the coat back?” he said, finally. “Why?”

“Because I’m very tired of this game you’re playing,” Anders responded immediately.

“You’re the only one subscribing to its rules,” Fenris said.

Anders threw up his hands, making the wine slosh, then set the bottle on the floor with a clank. “I might be a Circle mage no longer, but it’s still how I was raised,” he said. “You can take the mage out of the Circle, but trust me, it’s taken me years to get the Circle out of the mage, so to speak. Not all of us threw off our years of bondage with just a scowl like you did.”

“It took much more than that,” Fenris said, annoyed but unwilling to start another fight. “You should be able to go, now.”

Anders rose to his feet, but instead of leaving, he walked towards where Fenris leant on the table.

“What you said earlier,” Anders said abruptly. “What did you mean?”

Fenris said nothing right away, but simply looked at Anders—at his shadowed eyes, chapped mouth and his hands, clenching at his sides the longer Fenris took to answer.

“After I gave you the handkerchief, why were you kind to me?” he responded instead.

“Kind to you?” Anders said in disbelief. Then the words apparently caught up to him, and he reddened.

“It reminded you…of the past, did it not?” Fenris said.

“For a little while,” Anders responded. “Before you reminded me what a tit you can be.”

“And you went back to your typical heartlessness,” Fenris retorted.

Anders looked stung. “Heartlessness?” he said. “How…you…I have a heart!”

“For your fellow mages only. And sometimes not even for them. Everyone else…” Fenris let his voice trail off with a shrug. It wasn’t all true—Anders seemed to love Hawke and Varric. But though he argued passionately for mages, his silver tongue would turn poisonous in a heartbeat.

“I have a heart,” Anders protested again, stepping closer.

“If you do, you show it to a precious few,” Fenris said.

“You’re one to talk,” Anders said. He was now only a breath away from Fenris, who sitting on the table was inches below him—usually they were of a height.

“I was cruel and I apologized,” Fenris said. Anders’ eyes were the color of almonds, and his stubble was getting longer than it usually was. Fenris wondered how it felt.

The silence stretched taut between them, and Fenris could hear Anders’ breathing hitch. The mage drew even closer, and set one hand on the table, next to Fenris’ knee—not touching, but close enough.

“You did,” Anders said finally. “I suppose it was all I could expect.”

“You have low expectations,” Fenris said, and hooked an ankle around his knee, pulling him forward.

Anders steadied himself with both his hands on Fenris’ upper arms, and he looked uncertain, for a single moment before his brow cleared and his mouth quirked.

Fenris could almost hear him thinking, This? This I understand. Nevertheless, he could feel Anders’ heart beating rapidly through the palms of his hands. He was anxious. Either that or afraid.

Fenris wasn’t feckless or faithless. He was not cruel. As he curled one hand around Anders’ neck and pulled him into a kiss, he resolved to prove Anders wrong.


	10. Chapter 10

The faint scent of ozone and metal hung around Anders, but he was disarmingly warm and human. Anders' grip on his forearms was light, but as Fenris angled his mouth to deepen the kiss, they tightened once before loosening, and slid down to his waist instead, trailing down the straps and grooves of his armor as they went. Fenris seized the opportunity to wind his arms around Anders's back, pressing closer. Anders groaned, and a part of Fenris thrilled to hear it—he bit gently at Anders' bottom lip, which throughout the entire ordeal had tormented him—the wide bow of his mouth, which when it wasn't smirking or frowning, was beautiful. Fenris bit it again for good measure.

His leg curled up along Anders' side, pressing there. Anders' hand smoothed up his leg, gripping him just above the knee, and Fenris gasped at the sensation—Anders' other hand still supporting his back and keeping him upright. How had he missed that Anders was strong?

Anders chased his gasp, and Fenris could almost taste his smug smile. In retaliation he leaned backwards, pulling Anders up and over him. Anders had to put a knee up on the table for balance, and it was his turn to pull in a breath as Fenris pulled him down. Some of Anders' hair hung in wisps around his face, and as Fenris reached up to bury his hands in his hair, he could feel the tie holding it back slide out. Anders _mphed_ in surprise as the rest of his hair fell softly on either side of his face, and Fenris pulled away long enough to see Anders' look of surprise. Fenris reeled him back in, one hand splayed widely on Anders' back. He could feel a bony spine under his touch, and several layers of cloth that bunched into his fist as he pulled Anders entirely up onto the table.

Anders' other knee clunked gracelessly onto the tabletop, and he hissed under his breath, but he seemed to get his bearings back quick enough as he knelt between Fenris' splayed legs. With a delicate touch, he cupped Fenris' head between both of his wide hands, and, looking down at him, gave him a chaste brush on the lips. Fenris leaned up, and Anders sat back on his haunches, leather boots creaking. The desperate crush of moments before softened into something else. Fenris slid atop his folded knees and Anders enfolded him in a tight clinch, his rough hot fingers resting delicately on the gap of Fenris' tunic, not questing or invading, but grounding. Fenris couldn't help but arch into the touch on his sensitive skin, and felt himself blush all the way up to his ears at the look on Anders' face—intent and wondering. Anders trailed his fingers down the gap, and Fenris felt himself quiver, and he had to bite back a curse.

“You're unfairly handsome,” Anders said. He seemed to be trying to control his breathing, but it was proving difficult.

Fenris sucked in a breath and laughed, and it sounded self-deprecating to his own ears, making him feel even hotter with embarrassment.

“I haven't heard that before,” he rasped.

“That's impossible,” Anders murmured, and the look in his eyes was melting now. “I'd call you beautiful, but that's a word for—flowers and sunsets and kittens.”

“You like kittens,” Fenris said, half in disbelief. He had finally gotten what he wanted—he had finally figured out what he wanted—and now Anders was running on about kittens.

Anders dipped his head to give his neck a lingering kiss.

“I'm halfway to liking you too,” Anders said to his clavicle, his voice a low rumble. “Turns out that happens if you drag me up onto a table to kiss me silly. But Maker, the way you twist my head around, Fenris.”

“It's mutual,” Fenris said, tilting his head back as Anders' ministrations made his toes curl. “Trust me.”

Anders paused, and gave a chuckle that was too sad to be coming from a man kissing the hollow of his throat.

It wasn't to be borne. Fenris tugged Anders' head away—but gently. Anders' cheeks and lips were red and his hair was in disarray, but Fenris could see him rebuilding his walls, rethinking his words.

“Anders,” he said sharply. “It's mutual. Whatever this is. I meant it. I am not trying to use you or deceive you.” He paused, and repeated himself. “Trust me.”

And he bent his own head to claim Anders' mouth again, ignoring the shock he read in Anders' eyes.

As he did, tension he had not even noticed melted slowly from Anders' shoulders, and Anders clutched him closer, finally relaxing into the embrace.

Fenris kissed Anders again and again, and pulled away incrementally. Anders' eyes had slid closed, and he rocked forward when Fenris leaned back, opening them slowly.

“Nothing to say?” Fenris murmured, helpless to stop brushing his thumbs across Anders' cheeks, from smooth skin to rasping stubble.

“Not at the moment,” Anders said back, mouth quirking. “I'll let you know.”

“I'll hold you to that,” Fenris said. He did not want to hear Anders' fears and prevarications, did not want to hear Anders calling any liason of theirs a mistake. But he braced himself.

The solemnity in Anders' eyes warned Fenris, but he was still surprised when Anders slid one knee off the table, putting one foot, then the other down on the floor. But he was even more surprised when Anders tugged him to the edge of the table and kissed him once more, like he could not pull himself away.

“I can't say anything,” Anders said breathlessly. “Damn it, Fenris.” Anders laughed, and Fenris watched in fascination as his eyes crinkled. Anders bent and gave him a taste of that smile.

“If I don't go now, we'll do terrible things to your table,” Anders said.

Fenris stilled—a part of him wanted to pull Anders back on top of him, and the other part agreed. But his rational side—the one not dwelling on how Anders had teased him over the last few months, that wanted to mix attraction and payback—urged caution. Anders was still hurting over his last romantic encounters, and Fenris found he did not want to be something Anders looked back upon with anger and despair.

“Perhaps...you should go,” Fenris rasped, and Anders nodded, drawing far enough away to allow Fenris to sit up and settle himself back on his feet again.

“Hawke is going to Sundermount tomorrow,” Anders said abruptly. “She wouldn't mind if you came along.”

“Before, you would have minded,” Fenris said, trying to gauge Anders' mood. The mage was still red-faced and mussed-looking, and he seemed to be scanning the floor for something—his hair tie, Fenris would imagine.

Anders gave up, and looked at Fenris again.

“What can I say?” Anders said. “I should leave before I get the urge to remind you that anything between us would likely end in tears.”

“I don't see myself weeping over you in my future,” Fenris said, drily.

“Maybe that's for the best,” Anders said. “See you tomorrow, perhaps.”

Fenris watched him go, still staffless, but far from harmless. Fenris had seen abominations before. Not only that, he'd witnessed Anders in battle. Perhaps Varric and Hawke had forgotten, in their fear for Anders, that the man could likely tear an opponent in half. Anders had likely not killed any of his assailants out of fear of igniting a Darktown vendetta, rather than out of any weakness on his own part.

Fenris resettled himself on his chair, pulling the bottle Anders had drank from to his lips. Rethinking his parting words to Anders, he belatedly realized they could be seen as cold, uncaring, even.

Anders had certainly taken them that way. Fenris lightly tapped the rim of the bottle twice to his temple in self-recrimination.

He had not meant that any harshness between them would be shrugged off by him. He had meant, more, that he would try and keep it from ever reaching that point.

But only if Anders tried to do the same. Fenris nodded and drank deeply, remembering how sweet Anders' kisses had been and smiling to himself.


	11. Chapter 11

The day dawned hot and sunny. Even though their party set out early, it was a harsh dusty trip up the mountain.

Anders seemed blank-faced and calm. Fenris did not know what he had expected, but his eyes kept straying over to the man. How could Anders look so unaffected? They had been rolling about on a table the night before, and here Anders was composing limericks about nugs with Varric as if it had not happened at all.

Fenris himself felt irrevocably changed, like anyone looking at him could see what he’d done. Yet, it was not such a terrible thought.

Marian engaged Varric in a conversation about investments, interesting only them both, and apparently having exhausted his repertoire of nug related humor, Anders drifted back, nearer to where Fenris was walking. Meeting Fenris’ gaze, Anders brushed his hair away from his neck—and shivered a wink in his direction, a coy smile on his wide mouth.

Fenris swallowed—the expression and gesture were pure provocation, and made Anders seem much younger, much more coquetteish than Anders had ever been before. He felt himself flush up to his hairline, and determinedly fixed his gaze on the road ahead.

But, unwilling to let the gesture go without a response, he nearly shouldered Varric off an outcropping when the dwarf leaned to lend Anders a friendly hand up. Anders’ hand was warm and dry in his own, and Fenris took great pleasure in effortlessly pulling him up. He could tell Anders was gratified by the display, going by his flushed cheeks and glazed look.

Or maybe that was the heat. Anders was wearing entirely too much clothing for a summer jaunt in the sun. The others were all more sensibly dressed. Marian soon called for a halt, and they all panted in the shade of some sad twisted trees.

Anders seemed to be making sure the two rogues were not listening when he sidled up to Fenris, unhooking his canteen from his waist.

“Water,” he murmured. “I know you usually share Varric’s, but Lowtown’s water tastes like feet.”

“Ah, and Darktown water is much better, I assume,” Fenris said back, taking the canteen. In what he considered an extreme gesture of trust, he unscrewed the cap and took a small sip. He might be developing an idiotic attachment, but he still wondered fatalistically what would taste worse than feet.

The water was sweet, and shockingly cold, colder than any water Fenris had before. He pulled the canteen away from his lips in shock.

“Good, right?” Anders said, looking enthused. “It was a very, very–” here he showed a small gap between his fingers “–very small Cone of Cold.”

Fenris took another sip to hide how charmed he was.

Mercifully, Hawke’s errand was completed quickly, and they were headed down the mountain at a fast pace within a brace of hours. Anders was complaining about how he hadn’t needed to come along after all.

“Yes, because you would be so much use in a fight without your staff,” Hawke said.

“Varric, I am under attack,” Anders said, turning in appeal to the dwarf.

“You’re getting no sympathy from me,” Varric said.

Fenris tugged at the sleeves of the coat—it seemed almost to repel the heat instead of absorb it. Another feature. He resolved to find a staff for the mage as soon as possible, even off a body if necessary.

They all headed to the Hanged Man once back at the city, and thought the sun was still high, their friends began to trickle in one by one.

Fenris spent much of the evening buying worse and worse drinks for Isabela, who seemed to take even the most heinous of the bar’s offerings as a challenge. Anders was even induced to drink a little wine, since Isabela pointed out that “drinking was not getting _drunk_ , you are drinking, I am _drunk.”_

It was just when the wooden bench was beginning to feel uncomfortable that Anders got up.

“Well,” he said, sidling a meaningful glance over at Fenris, so obvious now that Fenris was looking. “I’ll be heading back to my clinic now.”

“I’ll come too,” Hawke offered.

“No, I’m not taking the scenic route, I’ll be fine,” Anders said. He adjusted the chain on his pauldrons, tugged his scarf straight over his worn shirt, and with a wave he stumped through a side door, presumably his own path down to the Undercity.

Fenris got to his feet once he was out of sight, and everyone’s attention snapped to him.

“Where are you going?” Isabela muttered.

“To Anders’ clinic,” Fenris said.

There was a beat of silence before a chorus of gasps, exclamations, and one high pitched squeal rent the air.

“Varric, contain yourself,” Hawke said, a grin splitting her face. “Wait! Fenris! We need details!”

“No,” Fenris said.

Isabela slid off her chair with a thump, whether in excitement or overwhelmed by Corff’s last offering. Anders had sniffed it and said had reminded him of the Joining, whatever that had meant.

Fenris escaped in the ensuing confusion.

* * *

It was midmorning the next day when Fenris knocked on the door of the Amell estate.

Ushered in by a smiling Bodhan, it took a few minutes for a yawning Hawke to descending, in her silly house getup. She was followed by her mother, looking much more alert.

“Fenris!” Hawke roused on seeing him, and motioned him to sit. “Er…is everything all right?”

Fenris nodded, took a moment, then spoke.

“I need a favor.”

“Anything,” Hawke said, her eyes wide and earnest.

“I need something silk,” Fenris said. “Something appropriate,” he directed towards her mother, who was avidly listening.

There was a beat of silence, and Fenris noted silently that the family resemblance was especially strong when mother and daughter were stunned.

“Andraste’s ashes,” Hawke finally whispered. “One night and you want to marry him? What did he _do_?”

“Marian _Prudence_ Hawke!” her mother said, scandalized. “That is not the kind of question one asks!”

“It’s not for right away,” Fenris said, overriding their voices. He had no intention of sharing with Hawke—or anyone—what had transpired the night before, which recalling called warmth into his chest and into his cheeks. He coughed and collected himself.

“I know just the thing,” Leandra said, rising to her feet.

“Me too!” Hawke said. The women looked at each other, and hurried away. Fenris could hear their voices echoing up the stairs.

Leandra returned first.

“This was my father’s shirt—I found it in an overlooked chest,” she explained. The shirt was ivory and covered in near invisible embroidery, and when Leandra held it out for his touch the roughness of his fingers caught on the smooth weave.

“He was married in it, so I was told,” she said softly.

Hawke burst back into the room, a swath of red cloth in her hand.

“I couldn’t find what I was looking for,” she said, “but I have this.”

“Is that part of your _bedsheet?”_ Leandra’s voice was long-suffering.

Fenris had to laugh.

“It’s perfect,” he said, and Leandra sighed.

* * *

Soon after leaving the Amell estate, he saw Anders purely by chance. The healer was squinting over some healing potions at the Lowtown market, Varric propping up the wall next to him.

“Well,” the dwarf said, on seeing him. “I gotta go to the merchant’s guild. See you lovebirds later.”

“Funny,” Anders said evenly once the dwarf was out of earshot. “How every single one of our friends seems to know where you were last night.”

“We are not in the Circle of Magi,” Fenris said. “There’s no need for subterfuge. I saw no need to lie.”

Anders looked ready to argue, but then sighed and shrugged.

“Habit,” he said, and Fenris took it as the peace offering it was. “These potions are shit,” Anders continued, stepping away from the stall.

“Hey,” the seller said, with only mild outrage.

Anders’ steps turned to Darktown, and Fenris walked beside him.

“What did Varric have to say?” _About us,_ Fenris wanted to ask, but Anders seemed to pick up on it anyway.

“For an author, you think he’d appreciate a good starcrossed romance,” Anders said. 

“He disapproves?” Fenris asked sharply.

Anders waved his hand. “That dwarf has been unlucky in love, mark my words,” Anders said, and Fenris subsided–not as much out of agreement with Anders’ opinion than in greedy appreciation of how he’d put it. _Romance. Love._

Anders fell abruptly silent a ways before the lift, and when Fenris glanced at him, he saw the mage’s eyes fix upon the red fabric tied around his wrist. Before Fenris could stop him, the mage ran his finger over it.

“…you didn’t have that when you left this morning.”

“No,” Fenris said. “It is not from someone else. So you know.”

“Recent bouts of histrionics aside, I am not the type of lover who jumps to wild conclusions,” Anders said drily. “But I will admit I am curious.”

Fenris considered his words for a moment, and Anders allowed it, for once not trying to fill the silence.

“It is…there if you want it.” Fenris said.

“If I wanted it now?” Anders asked.

Fenris let a smile show, remembering what Hawke said earlier.

“It would be too soon, but it would be a boost to my confidence,” he said.

Anders flushed, but laughed.

“If I never wanted it?” he said, sobering.

“Then it’s your choice.”

“And you can take it off whenever you want, of course,” Anders said fiercely.

“Naturally.”

“Then…thank you. What a gift.”

The last of many, Fenris thought, as Anders caught his hand and pressed it. But perhaps it would be the first of many more.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Paper and Cotton [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9004039) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton), [SomethingIncorporeal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingIncorporeal/pseuds/SomethingIncorporeal)




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